


set my midnight sorrow free

by earnmysong



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 16:53:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2819402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earnmysong/pseuds/earnmysong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Ignoring his sudden urge to put his desk between them -- her body language is screaming ‘I’m ready for a fight, sir. Bring it.’ (Don’t call me ‘girl'.)’ -- before he says what he’s about to, he soldiers on.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	set my midnight sorrow free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [juldevere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juldevere/gifts).



> For [ribbonthief](http://ribbonthief.tumblr.com) on the occasion of NewsroomSecretSanta. Happy Holidays, darling! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Many thanks, a million tackle-hugs, and several Brett Dalton cut-outs to CC (catteo). Your fantastic beta skills are irreplaceable and much appreciated, my dear! This takes place after 3x05 and continues through a portion of the finale. Title credit goes to Sam Smith. {Also. This technically isn't supposed to exist until the 25th, but I'm going to be busy for the week after and wanted to post this while I remembered. We'll just keep this to ourselves, okay?}

\----

Sloan wants nothing more than to get the fuck out of dodge and never look back. The only thing throwing a wrench in her wish becoming a reality is the fact that nobody’s leaving. In the three hours that have come and gone since she and Don watched an ambulance tear through city gridlock before making what seemed to be a much longer trek back upstairs, not a single person has gone home. In spite of the fact that her flight reflex is reaching critical mass, she’s definitely not going to be the one who makes the first move to change that. 

She commandeers Maggie’s computer, pulls up a Times crossword that’s a decade old, and stares at a screen of empty squares for half an hour. (The timer’s mocking her from its corner, keeping track of her inability to engage in higher-level thought; she has to _literally_ sit on her hands to avoid smashing in the screen with her fist.)

“You ready to get out of here?” Don’s voice comes from somewhere behind her and, apparently, he’s close enough that he can avoid yelling. She shakes her head but doesn’t turn, at the same time as, “Can I ask why you’re sitting like that?”

Extracting her hands, she spins her chair to face him with a shrug. “I’m cold.”

“I have a sweatshirt in my gym bag, if you want it.” We should really go, though.” He starts to follow his own advice, stops when she shoots _When has the gym ever been a priority for you?_ at him. (She’s gearing up for a fight.) His gaze shifts back in her direction and he discovers that not only is she not walking with him, she hasn’t moved a muscle. “So. Not leaving. Got it.” He nods once, accepting this development, circles so he’s leaning against the desk, an inch from her elbow. “‘Gym’ is an acceptable substitute for ‘duffel’. That was the intended connotation. No, I don’t work out on a regular basis, and I appreciate you pointing that out to the entire office.”

“Pruitt said no one leaves. As you can see,” she sweeps a wide circle with her arm, encompassing the room full of their coworkers, “they’re all too busy toeing whatever line that asshole has drawn to be concerned with your lack of callisthenic habits. Besides,” eyes still intent on the task at hand, she keys in a few letters as she’s talking, slamming ‘Backspace’ when she decides they don’t fit as soon as the letters appear in their boxes. Don puts his hand over hers (the key’s coming loose from its space) in a gesture clearly designed to impart comfort. All it does, though, is get under her skin and make her more jittery than she was a second ago; she pulls away hurriedly, going back to the puzzle from hell while he peruses the scattering of notes that Maggie’s left abandoned across her workspace. “My earlier attempt at subversion was _killer_. Forgive me if I don’t feel like risking similar results in round two.”

“For a woman who despises puns, that was a decent one. A little morbid, but people deal in different ways.” He doesn’t fully laugh (it’s not the time for it), but the beginning of one drifts into his voice. He glances up then, all amusement vanishing as he catches sight of her face – a face that’s five steps closer to crumpling than it was the night she sent the broadcast audience running to fill in their information gaps with GoogleTranslate and a DVR. 

“Shit. You think --?” He runs a hand over his head as he considers what exactly she does think, finally clapping it against his neck. Crouching next to her chair, he brings himself level with her, waits for her to look at him. “Let’s go to my office.”

She nods slowly, knowing she doesn’t want to stay where she is; Don’s suggestion is far more appealing than anything she’s come up with in the last thirty minutes or so. “Lead the way,” she says, swiping her fingers under her eyes as she stands.

\----

Don’s hand touches her arm as she sits on the edge of the nearest available chair. “You’re freezing.” Sleeves would help with that.” Walking back the way they’d come in, he closes the door and tosses the sweatshirt he’d alluded to earlier in her direction.

Catching it neatly by the hood, she slides her arms into the sleeves but doesn’t pull it over her head, lets the bulk of it pool in her lap. “Well, the Weather Channel doesn’t correct for personal tragedy.”

“Since that segue’s most likely the best I can hope for, let’s talk.” He clears a place for himself on the edge of his desk before he pulls her seat around to face it. “You are not responsible for what happened here tonight. The interview? Yeah, that was you. It was also Mac. I can’t speak for everyone else, but I’m pretty sure they were backing it too.”

“Everyone being behind me doesn’t change the fact that they were _behind me_. I was the one on-camera. The one Charlie saw, that he listened to. Therefore, I, and only I, am culpable for this.” She stares him down when she finishes, hands clenched into fists, sucking air in through her nose as fast as she can. 

Ignoring his sudden urge to put his desk between them -- her body language is screaming ‘I’m ready for a fight, sir. Bring it. ( _Don’t call me ‘girl’_ )’ -- before he says what he’s about to, he soldiers on. “The man was being pulled in a million different directions, Sloan. He was bound to run out of steam sometime. You were just the last in a long line of clusterfucks, and you have no idea how sorry I am about that.” 

He stands, moving forward to put his arms around her, but she twists out of his way before he can make contact. What she offers next is a whisper, barely discernible underneath the grief permeating her voice and the tears she can no longer keep at bay. “I said I’d dance on his grave.” The words, once released, hang accusingly in the open space between them. She loses her composure completely at this point, alternately dissolving into laughter as the memory surfaces and hiccupping sobs as last year’s half-hearted promise collides with the present.

Don doesn’t laugh at her idiocy, doesn’t say anything at all.

Eventually, he pulls her into a bone-crushing hug. If this was a different day, any other circumstance, it might border on painful, but tonight, at this moment, it’s the most comforting thing in the world. “It’s not your fault,” he breathes against her hair, too many times to count. “You might not think so right now, but I swear it’s true.” He kisses her then, soft and deep, an apology in motion. “Besides,” he adds as they separate, “if nothing else, I deserve to shoulder some of the weight.” 

She tilts her head, soundlessly asking a question, nodding as she concludes, “Your midday jaunt to Jersey wasn’t to win big on the ponies.” 

Don shakes his head in amazement. “You, my esteemed colleague and brilliant girlfriend, have clearly never been to Atlantic City, because the track you think exists wouldn’t fit between the slot machines and the boardwalk.” He stops, his tone losing its momentary infusion of brightness. “I told that girl to stay as far away as she could from us, screw the consequences.” The ghost of a smile crosses his features before, “I’d bet my last dollar that your decision to eviscerate Bree was brought to us by a similar mindset.”

“Screw the consequences,” she repeats, with a lightning-fast up-and-down of her head, the smallest of nods. “What exactly did our profound wisdom get us?” She shrugs helplessly. “I know what it cost, but what do we get in return?”

“I wish I knew.” He moves to stand next to her, pulls her into his side. “I’m taking the blame. I can do that much.”

\----

Three days later, Don presses Sloan into a corner off the Skinner’s front walk. “Somebody want to – I guess I’ll be the adult,” Will calls after them, shutting the limo door they both left through but neglected to close. Walking past them on his way into the house, he gives them a look that’s equal parts annoyed and amused.

“That didn’t really play out the way we discussed.” Don waits until Will is out of earshot to start the conversation. “You were only supposed to start, because _I_ was the one falling on the sword. Instead, you just kept yelling at me to tell him. Not very subtly, I might add. Not to mention, you basically gave yourself up before I even had a chance to do my full spiel.” He’s struggling to maintain a perturbed expression, the fact that the corners of his mouth twitch upward every few seconds thwarting these efforts.

“I panicked, okay? When I panic, all bets are off. _You know this_.” Her voice pitches high, grating in her ears, and she catches her lip between her teeth to cut off the sound.

“I don’t know what you were doing on the way over, but I would definitely say that you’re panicking now,” he informs her.

“Nice. Thanks so much. Very supportive of you, Don.” Folding her arms across her chest, she takes a step away from him, focuses on a ladybug she finds crawling across the brick pathway to her right. 

“I didn’t mean – It was just an observation.” He holds his breath, cheeks puffed out with it, lets it out slowly, like this will calm him and, maybe, her. “I know rage is your default, but this isn’t easy on any of us. You have to realize I’m just trying to be here for you.”

Her anger dissipates in the face of his sincerity, and she sighs. “See? All bets. Off.”

“Hey. None of that was any worse than your typical Monday morning routine. Hate to tell you this, but it’s going to take a lot more than that to get rid of me, Money-Honey.”


End file.
